


And Then Forever Roam

by Anonymous



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:25:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unapologetically cliche road-trip AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then Forever Roam

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a good many notable sources. Warning: not geographically inclined; I failed maps. Title from Manhattan by Kings Of Leon.

_"And I'll be buried at sea sewn up in a clean white sack and dropped overboard — at noon — in the blaze of summer — and into an ocean as blue as my first lover's eyes!"_

_— A Streetcar Named Desire, Tennessee Williams_  
  


It's in these late nights that you really do appreciate her in its entirety. Her eyes, you deem to have originated from a tragic Greek poem you only appear to loathe, like a shallow, reef-crusted bay, like light, as it catches through the surface of the sea. No, not sky blue, you think, but _ocean_ blue. Vulnerable, vast, raw, _powerful_.

But it is in her hair that you can truly concede that fire is indeed beautiful, the way it's shimmering and rippling like exquisite silk. It burns you too, somewhere deep inside. A searing, bold pain that makes the roof of your mouth dry.

And her touch, whenever given to you casually, carefully, are insistent and gentle, coaxing.

Her brazen presence, softened by a tender smile and an affectionate point in her eyes, makes you jittery, skittish. You would never admit, but you reckon she knows, as she knows you fairly well and that is more than you could say about others.

You drum your fingers to a phantom beat against the table, avoiding the sticky splotches left behind from previous patrons, and choose to remain silent at the lack of hygiene. She sits across you, though even that distance is overbearingly close. You dislike how she undermines your control over things, yourself, and the flagrant, shameless manner she beguiles the reigns from you. A small, innocuous part of you admit that yes, it is admirable. But that part also suggests a provoking image of her lips at your ear, whispering to _let go_ , and her red, red hair like a hellfire.

Her smile is easy; she is generous with them where you are selfish. She is uninhibited, that much is evident when she presses a hand onto yours, and laughs openly.

"Impatient," she calls you.

"I value time," you retort (though there is arguably less bite).

"Your impatience would imply you value time elsewhere more than you value time here with me," she narrows her eyes, but her voice is light. "Can't wait to bail?"

"No," then you grumble sourly, "Psychology majors."

She leans back, a new smile appearing. "Common sense, actually."

You let her win and concur with a roll of your eyes, only because (you think) it gives you an inflated ego and chivalry (you're more convinced it _is_ dead). But that's the optimist in you.

You eat your late-night pancakes drenched in maple-syrup and butter, and the overabundance of them makes her physically recoil. You raise your eyes in challenge, fairly certain you'd lose anyway, and she blatantly ignores you to nurse her coffee, dumping in an ironically many packets of sugar.

At your pointed look, she defensively says, "It's therapy."

"You're a super senior," you say around mouthfuls of pancake. "You can _afford_ better therapy."

She smiles, as sweet as grossly sugary coffee and pancakes, "This is all the therapy I need."

You need to grunt in order not to appear flustered, and forcefully spear your pancakes that it makes an unholy grating against the plate. She says nothing when you snatch her serviette because yours is soiled enough, and tolerates your prodding and hinting at her boyfriend (honestly, you don't even know if he still is anymore; it's hard to keep up) with demure batting of eyelashes and honest-to-goodness vague answers that are so cryptic you can't even begin to understand her.

"Whatever," you finally resign. "Don't talk. Don't tell me."

She surprises you when she turns to look at the dusky outside, her hair curling at her nape. Her charming old Chevy is parked amongst huge trucks making transit, and the plains just stretch on, and that somehow suffocates and belittles you.

She's wearing her scarf, tied around her wrist.

You blink. A moment of clarity hits you, and you are suddenly aware of the insanity and madness. You're on the outskirts of Iowa, in debt, a switchblade concealed in the sleeve of your jacket, a gun pressed to the back of your waist (she doesn't know), no destination in mind but to keep going, and no buffer whatsoever between you and her. It's a compromising position and you haven't the slightest idea why you agreed to this, only that her lips curl downwards when she's trying not to appear upset, and her eyes glow a little less. Not to mention the fact that you were still riding the high of your victory at Worlds and her hands were shaking with all that she feared.

"Looks like it might rain."

"Hmm."

It seems the likely timing to confess something. But you are not as cheaply sold.

"Any motels around here?" you ask instead.

She shrugs. "I think I saw one pulling over."

You wait, then, because with her, all you do is wait. She needs time, you understand that. Kindly, you don't rush her, using your knife to spread the remaining maple syrup across your plate instead and trying to sketch continents in them.

She'll come to, you know that.

You reach into your bag and slip out a similar scarf, and tie it around your wrist in likely fashion.

She spots the gesture and rewards you with an appreciative smile. "The yellow clashes so badly with your leather."

You roll your eyes and fumble around for a twenty in your back pockets, slipping it under the plate. Sliding out of the booth, you reach your hand out for her, and she takes it, her hand firm and yielding and the strongest chain you've ever felt.

"You'd totally dominate," she says dismissively, flirty, and drags you till your holding on only by your fingertips.

"All I ever seem to do is roll your eyes with you around," you say seriously.

But she plants a kiss on your cheek, smearing your cheekbone with glossy lip balm and you glare, indignantly wiping the offensive substance off.

"Y'know, if you go around kissing everything, which you totally do, you're going to get herpes. Or something infectious."

This time, it's _she_ who rolls her eyes. "I only ever kiss you."

"And several others," you point out, unnecessarily.

Lately, she has taken up the habit of smoking, which you consider extremely attractive and succubus-like, but you realistically comment on the damage it'd do to her vocal cords, especially after it's been pried open and messed with once before.

She had stuck her tongue out at you and blown smoke in your face. "Lighten up."

"Oh, classy pun."

You end up sharing a cigarette with her now, the draft threatening to extinguish the feeble light as the both of you pass it back and forth outside her car.

She'd randomly adjust your hair, tuck an errant curl behind your ear, mutter something like: "You look prettier with this parting."

You accept it, say "whatever" and inhale the cigarette mightily. She grins at you now, getting into the car and gunning the engine. There's a heady quality to the air, and a faint haze that makes everything surreal and more beautiful. It's not such a horrible warped reality. She checks her reflection in the little mirror, and you catch her eye in the reflection.

You finish up the cigarette, and exhale into the night.

In the passenger seat, your feet immediately rest on the dashboard, and she clucks her tongue at you disapprovingly, but you're not the least sorry. Both hers and your phones and IPods died a few hours ago, so you make do with the top 50 country hits on the radio. It's not as bad as you'd think, and you find yourself settling deeper into the seat, thinking: _wow, the air smells spicy here_.

"How's Jesse?" she asks, precariously, suddenly, just as your eyes begin to droop.

You inhale through your mouth audibly. "He'll survive."

"Right, I mean, how — "

"Nu-uh, dude, you didn't answer when I asked you the question earlier, so I don't have to either."

"Real mature," she whistles. "Fine."

She reaches into a compartment and tosses a breath-mint at you. You're too tired to move or to even acknowledge the breath-mint sitting comfortably on the fold of your shirt.

"Looks like we both have issues," she drawls.

"Uhuh, sure," you reply drowsily. "Let's trade."

She laughs, "You're drunk."

"No, you are," you insist, your words slur and her figure is blurring, and there is a gentle pattering on the roof of the car, swirling with the dried dust on the windows and windshields, and it is all so nice, so mellow that you can afford to close your eyes to the husky warble of Tom Waits.

*

You awaken on a soft bed, delirious, half-conscious, and all kinds of disoriented, completely aware of a warm weight pressing into your back, soft flesh where your gun should be, and an arm slung over your waist. It's dark, neutral-coloured furniture and light blue walls illuminated only by a lamp in the far corner.

You mumble intelligibly, and you hear wondrous laughter — _there_ , right in your ear.

"You have a gun," she murmurs, and it is all too much, that you close your eyes right there and then, and wish it was all different.

At least, she didn't find the switchblade.

*

Breakfast is a dull and muted affair, with you crossing your knife and fork over pancakes. She appears at your table carrying a bowl of fresh fruits. Your shoulders slump at the sight of her other vacant hand.

"Sorry, no maple syrup," she says, and pushes the bowl towards you instead.

"What is this, a consolation prize? How can they have dragon fruit and no maple syrup," you grouch.

She simpers, "I carried you up the room, maybe it's God's way of telling you to lay off the sweet stuff."

You flick a peanut shell at her. She laughs too brightly for the morning, and so you avert your eyes onto your pancakes, sadly buttered. "No one told you to."

Her eyes widened. "Would you rather I left you in the car?"

You're about to flick a square piece of watermelon at her when she touches your hand in the same way again, and you're stilled. You withdraw your hand with a defeated, surly, "Point taken."

She types away at her phone, newly-charged, and you are suddenly and rudely made aware of life's intrusions. Jesse's waiting several phone calls and voicemails away, and the thought made you strangely restless. You push away the unfinished pancakes at the bitter taste rising up your throat.

She tears her attention away from her phone at your abrupt loss of appetite, and frowns. "Surely it can't be that intolerable without maple syrup."

But you can't (you would never) admit such things to her, so you say instead, "You have no idea."

She looks at you like she knows, there's a bothersome itch at your neck and around your sternum. You claw at it, hoping it'd go away, and pull down the restricting collar of your shirt. It feels claustrophobic all of a sudden, like the leash around your neck had been yanked.

"What's wrong?" she asks immediately, phone set aside.

Her eyes are a lovely shade of concerned, but you can't choose to indulge in that now. You just need to get away, far away, as far as possible from all this. Your eyes, wild and frenzied, just flit from person to person.

"Let's just go, yeah?" you insist weakly.

She knows not to touch you like this, so just simply nods, and together, the both of you wander around the perimeters of the motel, saying nothing, fingers occasionally brushing, but even that seems like an accident.

"You have a gun," she finally says.

What an opener, you think. But the jitters are going away and your shoe rims along a puddle left from the rain yester-night. You laugh unsettlingly.

"Why am I not surprised?" she continues.

"Well, two attractive girls jumping from state to state isn't exactly the safest mode of transport."

"Sweet, but vain. All credit from complimenting me eroded away by you complimenting yourself."

You shrug.

"Anyway, it's adorable that you think you'd be the one doing the protecting."

"And _you_ know how to shoot a gun?"

"You're forgetting who I'm friends with."

A certain blonde memory bubbles forth and you work hard to suppress the nasally yelling and nagging. "Of course."

"I happen to also be trained in martial arts, I'll have you know."

"Doesn't count when someone pulls a gun on you."

"Nothing counts when someone pulls a gun on you."

"Fair enough," you concede.

"I'd take a bullet for you, though, if it comes down to it," she says it, so casually, so dismissively, with a shrug that could mean anything.

You falter, and decidedly laugh it off, "Dude, if someone pulls a gun on you, you run. No questions asked."

"And die running away like a coward?"

Her gaze shifts, and it's too intense, too deep and penetrating that the sheer force of it makes you fluster. It's unbecoming of you, to be so easily troubled by her.

You can hear the foul tension, like a razor grating on a tightly wound string, and when you swallow the bitter taste remains. There are worse hurts, of that you are certain. You can never truly die out of desperate longing, nor of heartbreak (you should know, you've seen your fair share of it just standing in the doorway of your parents' bedroom).

Her hand, tentative, as it would with a wild, frightened mare, reaches out and takes yours. Her confidence grows, you can tell; her grip tightens almost to transmit reassurance and relief. Only now, it begins to seem more and more of an anchor that would sink and drown you.

Your voice betrays little, if not nothing. "There's something admirable in cowardice too."

*

"Which part of the states are you at now?"

"I'm not sure, probably Iowa. I think we're entering the border. Actually, that might have been yesterday. I can't be sure."

He muses pointedly yet lightly, "Looks like I'm missing out."

"Please," you pacify him. "You're not missing out on much."

"So when will you be back? I miss you."

"Do you really?"

"Of course!" his warm laughter seems so nearby; if you turn the corner you're convinced you may even see him and his black beetle car.

"I'll see you when I see you," you compromise.

But he is smarter than you give him credit for. "Are you really not going to give me a tangible answer?"

You pause and think that you may spin something out of his consistent breathing. "I'll let you know when I've figured it out."

"You know I love you, right?" he only sounds desolate now, and you glance to where she sits in the car, aviators on her face, windows rolled down so you can hear how her voice carries to where you stand near an obscure telephone booth.

You can tell he's expectant of a similar reply, but you say instead, confidently and without faltering, "Yeah, I know."

*

She doesn't tell you till she's pulling into the driveway of some marked-out area, which, by then, is too late for any kind of protest. You groan into your arm from where you've been watching dust particles skip across the road.

"Don't make that sound; you know drive-in movies are a must."

"You tricked me," you accuse, tossing a battered map at her, which she evades deftly.

Perhaps it's the way she wears her scarf like a bandana around and under her unruly ponytail that you cannot really argue with her.

"It's horror," she placates, as if that somehow changes things.

" _You're_ a horror."

She clucks her tongue at you, but otherwise doesn't even bother to rebut, pulling out some liquor she had bought earlier from the convenience store at the gas station and a ratty old blanket. Depositing them into your lap, she winks at you and taps a forefinger against your forehead before climbing out of the car.

She returns later with a fresh pack of cigarettes she must have bought off someone, but they look suspiciously sketchy, and the way she's eyeing you makes you uneasy. She passes you a disposable container of cheese fries with bacon bits and a taco ("We'll share," she grins). You find that you do not really mind sharing with her.

The opening credits of _Evil Dead_ begin to roll, and she must have watched this movie at least twenty times with the way she seems to somehow foresee all the jump-scares, and barely flinches at the gore.

"Stop watching me," she whispers. "Watch the movie."

"I'm watching you watch the movie."

On more than one occasion do your fingers brush, and you know that a good majority of them are not incidental, which probably is her intention for getting the cheese fries in the first place.

She eases out a rolled joint from the cigarette pack she had just acquired and you _know_ for sure that that's not an ordinary cigarette. She catches your eye and there's a delinquent glint in hers when she lights it up.

There's nothing timid in the way she holds your gaze.

"The guy claims it's homemade," she shudders.

She leans her head back against the seat, and looks at you with an arresting smile and darkened eyes. You squint through the curling smoke of the joint and reach out for it.

"Give it here."

Her pleased grin blurs briefly as you inhale, but sputter and cough at the potent stuff. It's strong, and floods your entirety with a pleasant warmth.

You cuss, she laughs gaily. The movie makes a neat backdrop as the both of you share the joint, observing the other.

"You're really pretty," she stretches out the vowels. "And amazing."

"Ugh, you too. You're like the girl equivalent of chick magnet."

She laughs. "Did you really just say 'chick magnet'?"

"I'm giving you a compliment here!"

Her feet are at your hips, and you can see the garish red of her toenails.

"Oh my God," you say as you accept the joint, "this is good."

She lifts her brow in agreement. "Have you called Jesse yet?"

You grimace. "Do we really need to talk about that right now? Have _you_ called your boyfriend?"

"Ex," she corrects. "Or something. I don't know," she fusses with her hair. "It's casual, until it wasn't. I just can't give him what he wants."

"Or he can't give _you_ what _you_ want."

She looks over, a strange element in her eyes, and asks, "And do _you_ know what I want?"

"No," you lie, "I don't."

*

The both of you decide to spend the night in the car as both of you are in no condition to drive. All effects of the joint have subsided, and she is now keenly aware of the limited space in the car, and your (self-diagnosed) claustrophobia, that she offers to sleep in the front seat as you take the back seat.

You frown at her in amusement. "Is this not one your ploys to sleep with me?"

She kicks the empty bags of Cheetos off the seat and looks at you disparagingly, wryly inquiring, "Or is it one of _your_ ploys to sleep with _me_?"

"Whatever. The front seats suck. There's plenty of space in the back for two."

Her eyebrows quirk, evidently surprised by your generosity.

"I'm suspicious."

 "You've literally been sleeping _on_ me for the past week. Hey, if you don't want to, fine. Enjoy driving four-hours straight tomorrow sleep-deprived _and_ with a messed up back. "

" _Fine._ You're so demanding, gosh," she submits, climbing gracelessly over and into the back seat, onto your lap.

She tucks herself into you, and your arms reflexively go around her to prevent her from falling off the seat. She's smiling into your neck, and you emit a trifling grumble.

"Stop looking so happy with yourself."

"I see now that all the maple syrup and sugar is making you all mushy inside."

"That's not even possible."

"Sure it is."

"Whatever."

You ensure the gun is within arm's reach, and her smile widens, mumbling something like, "my little cowboy".

You flick her forehead and that only earns you a laugh.

Then, much quieter, "Are you going to call Jesse tonight?"

"No," you tell her. "No signal. Tomorrow, maybe. Go to sleep."

"Hmm."

You awaken to an officer knocking rudely on your window, gesturing at you to wind down the window, and a mouthful of red hair. It was worth the ticket issued to you.

*

After numerable instances of drifting away to country hits, the music, loudly techno in its rhythmic, solid bass and jerking, jumping tempo, is almost overbearing. For a staggering moment, you fear that you've become intolerant to the genre. You, who have fused techno into ballads, and sampled nearly every combination there is.

Your subconscious, the unfiltered and blunt part of you, immediately blames her influence.

But you watch her flutter from crowd to crowd, socialising where you choose to remain by the drinks and the booths. You can almost hear her shallow (no, you don't think she could ever be that) chatter, and is nearly overcome by a wholesome amount of loathing for this sordid joint.

You've swapped your leathers for a tight-fitting dress,  the one she _demanded_ you bring for occasions like this.

You press the heel of your palms into your eyelids, seeing starbursts in contrasting shades of purple and deciding them to be the most beautiful and headache-inducing thing you've ever seen.

You jolt when a hand is pressed to your shoulder. Your world opens up to a sharply-dressed male (his Tissot looks like he has a stable, well-paying job) with purposeful eyes and a hard-set jaw. He looks decent, and his interest is well-founded.

You're not particularly sure what he is saying, or what he said, because the harsh lighting that appears to be communicating in Morse code, is not helping your headache any. Everything is overwhelming. You just need the blathering to stop. _Yes, just stop. Shut the fuck up._

You remember an acute pain and a good many variation of sounds before you see starbursts once more.

*

You hear her first. The ire in her voice is compelling, so is this strange throbbing in your left hand at the slightest twitch of your fingers.

"I see you moving. I know you're conscious."

"Stop staring," your voice cracks and it sounds more like a whine than anything else.

"I would just like you to know, that what you did was _incredibly_ , _completely_ and _utterly_ _stupid_ , even for you."

"Oh my God, stop talking. You sound just like —" There's a door slamming with quite some strength behind it that the sound is accompanied by the protesting creak of hinges. The sound _explodes_ in your ears, and you groan.

You sigh at the revving engine and the squeal of tires on the tarmac, lifting your hand over your eyes, and realising that, indeed, you had delivered an arguably well-deserved hook to a solid jaw, with your tequila in hand.

"Fuck."

*

"Your pancakes," the waiter says, and there is something in his voice that seems to imply your pathetic state.

You can't seem to care, and through the rosy-brown of your Ray-Bans, you slap on a sickly saccharine smile, forcing out a "thank you" that is way more defensive than you'd intended.

You flood the plate with maple syrup, spreading the butter evenly and hastily, making do with your hindrance of a hand. The viscously dripping piece makes you feel tremendously better about yourself. You feel dignified and perfectly justified. You're not at wrong. She has no reason to be upset with you. _And if she says otherwise, she can go fuck herself._

The waiter, in his faded blue tee, is so horribly obvious in his stares that you glare at him, though the effect is lost in your sunglasses and sugary lips. But he looks away promptly.

You're on your second serving when you hear her: "Thought I'd find you here."

She calls for a coffee and slides herself comfortably into the seat opposite you. You wipe at your lips, but continue to eat anyway. You aren't certain of what to say, and would rather not say anything at all, preferably.

There is, however, an open quality in her unbearably blue eyes and a narcotic smell of cigarettes lurking about her. 

"You know," she begins, muttering a quick thanks to the obtrusive waiter for the coffee, "you have this thing called a God-complex."

"Yeah, I don't think you're qualified enough to diagnose me with anything."

She scoffs into her mug. "I don't need to be qualified. Anyone can tell."

You scowl. The pancakes are beginning to get soggy, more than they already are. The irrational you starts faulting her presence. It defies logic and physics.

"And I was _so_ hoping it'd be less obvious."

She frowns now.

"If you came here for an apology, I can assure you you're not going to get one," you say as diplomatically as possible.

"You're upset," she interjects. "I don't know why. But you are. And you do this thing where you take it out on other people. I've been feeling this since we reached Iowa."

You push aside your pancakes so that the utensils clatter and the ceramic scrapes the table. "I don't have to do this. I don't _want_ to."

You throw some money on the table (it might've been a dollar, you have no idea) and is beginning to leave when she dumps the coffee over you. To be fair, the coffee is lukewarm and no longer scalding, but it _was_ your favourite shirt and your only clean one as of late.

Your mouth is wide open, and making incomprehensible sounds of token protest. You struggle to find words to justify this strange, calmly rational rage beginning to manifest. She takes advantage of this to seize your wrist (your good one) and hauls you out the diner, away from widened and narrowed eyes alike.

"Now you can tell me. Why are you so mad?"

"Why am _I_ mad? Why?" your laughter is horribly sardonic, sarcastic. " _Wow_. You don't even need a college degree for that. You tell me. Come on, tell me. Why am I mad?"

Her jaw clenches. You're appeased you can garner such a reaction from her.

"You think you know me, you think you understand. You _don't_. You don't and never will get it. _So stop trying to_."

Heat rushes to her face as if she's been slapped. There's a pregnant pause. Your anger has enabled you to observe her in microscopic detail, and it frustrates you that she is still able to confound you, even now.

Her hand is raised and you recoil instinctively. But it is gentle when it rests on the crown of your head.

Her eyes are indecipherable, but they are lovely. She only says, "Let's get you cleaned up."

The anger and her passive-aggressiveness leave you drained and immensely spent. You reply, softly, "I've nothing to change into."

"I do."

*

"Does it hurt?" her eyes are on your heavily-gauzed hand, awkwardly covered in a plastic bag and tied at the wrist.

"No," you say. "I was drunk."

Your bare back is pressed against her front. She had wrestled you into the tub and you are too exhausted to argue any more so you can only comply. You note never to underestimate her strength. It's completely normal. It's familiar territory. You're in denial. You might be infatuated with her. It doesn't matter. You might be. You might even be in love with her. Start something you've never thought of ever staring with anyone before.

But these are thoughts generated by your highly emotional state of mind, and her lucid eyes staring at you intently.

There are soap suds everywhere. Green apple. "I'm sorry I spilled coffee all over you."

You sigh. "It's okay. I bet the coffee wasn't that spectacular anyway. And I'd wager that you wanted to get into the tub with me."

"Hmm. You're right about that."

"We've done it all. Shower, bathtub," you deadpan, trying to pile the bubbles by your ribs.

"I'm ticking it all down mentally as you speak."

"Oh my God, you have a list."

"I'm underprepared for most things, but not for this."

Her fingers linger at your tattoo, then at the indentations and veins of your wrist.

"Why'd you do it?" she asks, softly.

"I had a headache," you say, allowing her fingers to stay. "And I was drunk," you repeat lamely.

She doesn't reject your reasoning (excuse), and hums. "Well, if you were smarter, you wouldn't have done it while holding your drink. And at least you didn't have your gun."

You wince. "Can you stop, like, cornering me into dead-ends?"

"What dead-ends?"

"Stop cornering me into agreeing with you. Like a verbal chokehold. Stop it. It's not cool."

She giggles. Then leans in to say mutedly into your shoulder, "Can't help it. It's almost like I'm the only one who can do it and still live."

"Well, don't push your luck. I might just —"

"But you won't," she supplies, her voice honeyed. She kisses your cheek. Your throat constricts. "I trust you."

The both of you end up lying closely by on the bed, you in her shirt and shorts. The blinds are shut and the only light is the television on mute, emitting flickering noises that would be otherwise alarming if you aren't currently preoccupied.

The sheets are rough underneath your fingertips. There's a soft intimacy surrounding the night like a persistent haze. You feel her breath on your lips, warm and wet. You're tempted to let your fingertips fall along the scar on her forehead that she's secretly insecure of, but that would be too much.

"I'm sorry," you murmur faintly, later.

She regards you, pupils blown-out, and you can see the quivering light in them. Her eyes, kind and soft, resemble plucked wild flowers, and without speaking, you know already that she has forgiven you.

"Are you?" she hums, determined to keep this easy and light as breathing.

Her hand cups your cheek and you know she's aware of the threat of you recoiling away. You can appreciate that she does so anyway.

"Maybe."

She smiles, "You'll have to tell me."

"But talking ruins everything."

She laughs, breathlessly, and you can smell the generic mint of her toothpaste. "Tell me anyway."

Rolling your eyes, you relent: "I'm sorry."

"That wasn't so hard."

You scowl. "You have no idea."

"Hush. Go to sleep," she says, but her eyes do not close, and she remains that way, watching you, that you can feel the heat in her hair and the ocean in her eyes, daring you to err.

Then you think, _Jesse_ , and you turn, so that she's breathing at your nape. You can almost feel the pang of disappointment, but now that the anger has all but dissolved, all that remains is a raving kind of melancholy and bitterness.

"I need an occasion for my bikini," you merely say.

You feel her nod. "Okay."

*

This isn't a tragedy. You refuse to be the antihero, the Byronic hero, or whatever supplement to this Kafkaesque, bleak reality. Your hands itch at their listless vacancy, and she somehow senses your agitation.

Her lurid hair is particularly lacking in volume, the freckles about her arms are becoming more prominent with her newly-acquired Iowa tan (though her hisses when you touch the flushed skin tells you otherwise) and her fingernails are jagged and uneven now that she's taken to biting them.

Currently her fingers are curled about a cigarette, taking delayed hits at random intervals. Her eyes are spaced out, and you watch her stifle a yawn into the back of her hand. At an approaching road shoulder, you nudge her elbow with your foot.

"Scooch. I'm driving," you say.

"Your hand's still messed up."

You roll your eyes, sniping, "You look like shit right now."

 She side-eyes you, but at your continuous prodding, she finally swats away your foot with a grimace and pulls over. "Do you even know where we're going?"

"Nope."

She lifts her feet (she always drives bare-footed; shoes are not a necessity in the Chevy) onto your lap and grins crustily at you, her eyes creasing, provoking, like moons and tides and running water, and her hair wind-kissed, coarse and tangled at her neck. You can only afford to muster a grunt.

"Take the next exit."

You feel her watching you through wilting, half-lidded eyes. There's a salty tang in the air, and all silence passed between the both of you is filled with the hits of the 90s (you recall her humming distractedly to Ace of Base). Your leather jacket is deposited and forgotten in the back seat, along with several bottles of cheap vodka and beer, now tepid in the humid heat.

"You're really sweet, you know."

There's a squelch of leather and, at once, she is _too_ close. Your hands jerk on the wheel and you hiss at the emanating heat her presence just seems to effortlessly generate. She sniggers at your recovery, and throatily murmurs, " _So_ sweet."

She returns back to her initial sprawl before you can bodily react, chortling.

"That's funny," you drawl acidly, glowering. "Are you laughing or puking? I can't tell."

"Oh my God, you are so _easy_! You get flustered so easily it's kind of adorable."

"I hate you."

She digs her toes into your bare laps, at the divide of you tan lines. She states indolently, and shuts her eyes, "No, you don't."

But you allow her feet to stay, and that, in itself, is a sufficient answer.

*

Halfway along the way, you seem to have a brief idea on the intended destination (it's a telepathic thing; although, God forbid she knows what's truly in your mind) and you find yourself pulling into a parking lot of a diner in Clear Lake. She wakes just as you kill the engine (the shuddering of eyelids, the returning colour, the escaping blue of her opening eyes, the satisfied twist of her lips).

"Morning," you occupy yourself with the spare change in your pocket for the meter. She makes a distracting figure to look at, to say the least. "We're here."

"Hmm. Clear Lake? How'd you know?"

"It made sense."

"You're really something."

"Shut up."

"Aw, don't blush."

You hip-check her so hard she tumbles off the sidewalk.

*

"This is so romantic," she muses.

You permit your feet to tangle with hers in the lukewarm waters, as you trade your pancakes for a wrap, and her head to rest on your proffered shoulder. Her arm involuntarily entwines around yours.  And it is, you must admit, rather romantic. The afternoon heat has yet to set in and everything has taken on this still-like property.

You wonder what the others are doing back home, what Jesse must be up to. The green apple scent of her hair has long since left, and now you can catch the lemon air freshener from the car, sweat, and an industrial trace off her hair.

You eat sloppily; it's difficult to manage with only one properly functioning hand, and spare bits of lettuce and beef are littered over your laps.

She laughs at you, you tell her not to. She calls you out on polluting the sea when you drop the discarded bits into the water below. You remind her it's not the sea. She appears scandalised. It seems, as always, surreal, that you are inflamed with this feeling you dare not entertain.

When the food is consumed, she plays with your fingers, predicts your love-life from your palms.

"You'll fall in love, alright," she drones.

You watch her speechlessly, too stricken to speak.

Finally, she drags her fingertip along the puckered line, saying, "Doesn't say with whom though."

This longing is profound.

*

You call Jesse. It's cowardly, that you would resort to such a low. Perched on the toilet, you dial his number and pray that it'd go to voicemail.

He picks up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

His voice is gravelly and rough, and he must have just woken up. But his voice grows fond instantly, "Oh, hi. How are you?"

 _having second doubts_. "Swimming with dolphins, lapping Pinot Noir by the gallon; just great, really. We just parked the yacht."

His laughter is pliant, a familiar melody that suddenly makes her homesick. His arms make for a good remedy, or a sanctuary of some sort. "Not missing out on much, huh?"

"Yeah," you say. Then, in an uncharacteristic burst, "You make me feel so nice and warm. You make me so happy."

"Yeah? How nice?" You can hear the rustling of sheets. "How _warm_?"

"O-kay," you warn, "don't go there. That's not why I called."

"Alright," he concedes. "Why did you call?"

"I think...I'm coming home soon. Maybe in a few days."

"That's great news. Why now?"

It's easy to lie. You are nothing if not a compulsive, pathological liar. "I just miss you."

Besides, an omission of truth is not a lie. Where he makes you feel secure, safe, and stable, she makes you feel _alive._

*

You reluctantly agree to accompany her skinny-dip in the lake later in the night, a compromise since you violently protested against doing so yourself.

"Dude, you just saw me toss lettuce and meat into the lake. It's gross and I'm not doing it."

"Tossing meat, huh," she only says, stripping into her bra and underwear. "I thought you wanted an occasion for your bikini."

"You do _not_ need a bikini to skinny-dip. Do you know how this thing works?"

She lours at you, insisting sullenly that she's "not an amateur". You look pointedly away, at the bright beams of light from the boats and yachts and the fluorescent buoy. The reassuring hush of waves and orange tinge from the lights leave a poignant effect.

She descends into the waters with a shrill yelp, gasping "Cold!".

You watch her safely, sipping a beer.

"Are you seriously not going to join me?" she calls out.

"No!"

"Damn it! I expected you to yield when you saw me naked."

You roll your eyes, _again_. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Look! I think I see the meat from your wrap!"

The beer burns a scorching path down your throat. It tastes stale, but you honestly can't be sure.

*

She sleeps so closely by. The television is switched on to its lowest volume, still playing cartoons from when she was watching previously. The metronomic droning of the fan lulls you to a state of semi-consciousness. Her hair is still damp from her shower after skinny-dipping, and her cheek rests on your collarbone like she's conquered that territory already. Her arm captures your waist, and you think it's almost endearingly Napoleonic. Her lips are parted, and you can feel the soft breaths across your chest. They might have made something flutter. She murmurs soundlessly against your fervent skin. In the safety of darkness you card your fingers through her wild hair, feeling as if it might come away red.

The close proximity gives you this insane urge to call Jesse. But the primal, hungrier and angrier portion of yourself calls this a compensation of sorts, and so you stay, piled underneath her limbs, wishing and wanting.

*

You inform her in the morning, over breakfast. She picks at her fruit salad while you go for your usual pancakes. She's dreary-eyed and it's darling as she yawns continually into her standard cup of coffee.

"Hey, I think I saw a bus station nearby. Think you can drop me there?"

She snorts, and rolls her eyes at you. "We have a car. We don't need the bus, idiot."

"No, _you_ have a car," you correct and she narrows her eyes at you. "I think I'm heading back. This is it for me."

Her hand stills at her cup, and it must burn, but she doesn't remove it or pull away or flinch. She stares solidly at you.

"You look like you still want to go on, and I don't want to stop you, or hold you back," you reason.

"I thought we were okay," she says.

"And we are! It's just that I want — no, _need_ to go home. I'm homesick."

Her eyes have gone opaque, and you know she's intentionally shutting you off. "You miss him," she concludes flatly.

"I just — what are we doing? How long more? How much further? It has to end sometime."

Her eyes rest on your left hand, bare with the gauze removed and the little nicks in the skin showing. But they are so distant. "Fine," she says.

"Fine?" you blink.

"Yes," she meets your eyes firmly, "fine."

Suffice to say, breakfast resumes on a sour note.

*

Packing your toiletries, you can feel her presence lurking in the back, can hear the comical dialogue and slapstick of the cartoon, which she chose to loudly play so as to avoid conversing.

But then she's obstructing your way, with you backing up into her. You rush out an "excuse me" that is, for all it was worth, blatantly ignored. You struggle to speak, which is relatively new for you, and definitely rare, but becoming more of a norm lately in her presence, what with your sarcasm and witty quips. But she does it anyway.

You're a hair's breadth away; you can see the linen of her shirt, the gossamer eyelashes of her hooded eyes.

Something compels you to inch forwards, so that you can feel her breathing through you, and you look at her with so much marvel, so much urgency, so much want.

That something nudges you to kiss her, fully, and follow after with lighter trace kisses that are chaste yet obstinate. That something whispers that there will never be as opportune a moment as now.

You think you hear your professor reciting:

_For I must tell her before we part,  
I must tell her, or die._

She is unresponsive at first, and you fear that you have mistaken her intentions, but then her lips are soft and pliant and her hands are clutching with need at your waist.

And those are all the answers you need.

*

You wake to her doodling on your collarbones and down the sternum, an absentminded gesture that is so telling of what currently resides in her mind. You inhale deeply, slumber broken, and she shifts slightly.

"I won't tell you to stay," she says, tenderly.

You wet your lips, saying nothing, appreciating the warm weight of her.

She continues: "But I want you to. And if you don't, nothing will change. I can promise that."

Then she rises to kiss you before leaving for the bathroom. Her eyes are watery when she goes. "Whatever it is you decide, I want it to be on your terms."

*

"Hi, Jesse, it's me. I think I've figured it out."

*

You recite Greek poems to her, not necessarily all tragedies, that you just happen to memorise for your elective and sometimes she reads aloud a tattered paperback you recognise as Tolstoy (your father is a professor in comparative literature, after all). You challenge her with a genre and an era and she sings whatever fits, and you join in, weaving through her voice, forming something newer, better.

She flicks salt at you over dinner when you point out how sappy and needy she is. You watch through her aviators as she busks on the streets where you're too proud to do any of that, gun in the dashboard just in case.

She presses the crumpled notes into your stomach as she pushes you (or maybe you pulled her) into bed, and you kiss her, grumbling into her mouth: "You're making me feel like a prostitute right now."  And her eyes are alive and vibrant. You feel loved even in a passing glance. She makes it known; she is utterly romantic in the way she breathes "I want you, I want you, I want you" into your fevered skin and eager mouth ("There's no shame in desire," she tells you haughtily and pardons your lingering eyes). You find that clubs are much more enjoyable by her side; there is no need to shed blood when she's there to appease you, and you, her.

And oftentimes, at red lights or when the road is near deserted, as you drift into varying states of unconsciousness, you feel her smile as she presses it into your cheek, neck, jaw.

Jesse will forgive you, eventually. But as she folds herself into you, under your chin, her arms welcoming even old Odysseus from his journey, all thought dissipates from your mind.

_end_

%MCEPASTEBIN%


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